Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded from our love away:
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day.
My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done.
And daily to my board at noon and even

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring,
That we might commune of our rest in heaven,
Gazing the while on death, without its sting.
And of the ransom for that baby paid,

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made:

Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed!

There were two milk-white doves my wife had nourished:

And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand Marking how each the other fondly cherished,

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand! So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying, Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest; And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,

Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 'Twas a fair sight; the snow-pale infant sleeping, So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child! Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining,

Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play;
And on the day he died, with sad note pining,
One gentle bird would not be frayed away.

His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted,
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill;
And when at last, the little spirit parted,
The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill.

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding,
As with a human sorrow in its coo;

To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding,
Most pitifully plained-and parted too.

'Twas my first hansel and propine to heaven;
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod,
Precious His comforts-once an infant given,
And offered with two turtle-doves to God!
ANNA STUART MENTEATH.

More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath ber
And every form that fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity?
Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of joy's anticipated hour?

Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man-
Her dim horizon pointed to a span;
Or, if she hold an image to the view,
'Tis nature pictured too severely true.

THOMAS CAMPBEITE

ONLY WAITING.

NLY waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of eay. Till the stars of heaven are D. caking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heartFor the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away; If they call me I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the last day's beam is flown;
Then from out the gathered darkness,
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly
Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCIS LAUGHTON MACE.

And plants, and minerals, and shells ;
Worms, insects, fishes, birds;
And every beast on earth that dwells
In solitude or herds.

And maples of fair glossy stain,
Must form my chamber doors,
And carpets of the Wilton grain
Must cover all my floors;
My walls with tapestry bedecked,
Must never be outdone;
And damask curtains must protect
Their colors from the sun.

And mirrors of the largest pane

From Venice must be brought; And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane For chairs and tables bought; On all the mantel-pieces, clocks Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, And screens of ebony and box Invite the stranger's hand.

I want (who does not want?) a wik Affectionate and fair,

To solace all the woes of life,

And all its joys to share ;
Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Offirm yet placid mind,

With all my faults to love me still,

With sentiment refined.

And when my bosom's darling sings,
With melody divine,

A pedal harp of many strings
Must with her voice combine.
Piano, exquisitely wrought,
Must open stand, apart,

That all my daughters may be taught
To win the stranger's heart.

My wife and daughters will desire
Refreshment from perfumes,
Cosmetics for the skin require,
And artificial blooms.
The civet fragrance shall dispense,
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.

And when at night my weary head
Begins to droop and dose,

A chamber south, to hold my bed,
For nature's sole repose;

With blankets, counterpanes and sheet,
Mattress, and sack of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour,

Who ne'er to flatter will descend,

Nor bend the knee to power;

A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong
For him, as his for me.

I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;
A soul secure from fortune's dart,
And bosom armed with steel;
To bear Divine chastisement's rod,
And, mingling in my plan,
Submission to the will of God,
With charity to man.

I want a keen, observing eye,
An ever-listening ear,

The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue, to speak at virtues' need,
In heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips, the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health,
Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth,
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's woe.

I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command,

Charged by the people's unbought grace,
To rule my native land;

Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask,
But from my country's will,

By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human kind;
That after-ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim;
In choral union to the skies,

Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man;
I cannot need them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss a song.

My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the scd,
And summoned to my final call-
The mercy of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

THE RAVEN.

NCE upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered,
"Tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember,

It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember
Wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
Vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—
Sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating Of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger;
Hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, or Madam, truly

Your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you❞—
Here I opened wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Deep into that darkness peering,
Long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal

Ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken,
And the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken
Was the whispered word, Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Startled at the stillness broken

By reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters

It is only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster,

Till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his hope the Melancholy burden bore

Of 'Nevermore'-of 'Nevermore.

But the raven still beguiling

All my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in
Front of bird and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking,

I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking

What this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,
Gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing,
But no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now
Burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining,
With my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining

That the lamplight gloated o'er ;
But whose velvet violet lining
With the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls Tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, By these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe

From thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—
Prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether
Tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
On this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-
Tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead?
Tell me tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—

Prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us—
By that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden

Whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden

Whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting,

Bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting"Get thee back into the tempest

And the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—

Quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,

And take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting,

Still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming
Throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow
That lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -nevermore !

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS.

'HERE'S no dearth of kindness

In this world of ours;
Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers!
Outward, we are spurning-
Trampling one another!
While we are inly yearning
At the name of "brother!"

There's no dearth kindness

Or love among mankind, But in darkling loneness Hooded hearts grow blind! Full of kindness tingling,

Soul is shut from soul, When they might be mingling

In one kindred whole! There's no dearth of kindness, Though it be unspoken, From the heart it buildeth

Rainbow-smiles in token

That there be none so lowly,
But have some angel-touch :
Yet, nursing loves unholy,

We live for self too much!
As the wild-rose bloweth,
As runs the happy river,
Kindness freely floweth

In the heart forever.
But if men will hanker
Ever for golden dust,
Kingliest hearts will canker,
Brightest spirits rust.

There's no dearth of kindness
In this world of ours;
Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers! Oh, cherish God's best giving, Falling from above!

Life were not worth living,
Were it not for love.

GERALD MASSEY.

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

LIVE for those who love me,

Whose hearts are kind and true; For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too;

For all human ties that bind me,
For the task by God assigned me,
For the bright hopes left behind me,
And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story,

Who've suffered for my sake;

To emulate their glory,

And follow in their wake;

Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages,

The noble of all ages,

Whose deeds crown history's pages,

And time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion

With all that is divine;

To feel there is a union

'Twixt nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction,

Reap truths from fields of fiction,
Grow wiser from conviction,
And fulfil each grand design.

I live to hail that season,

By gifted minds foretold, When men shall live by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old.